Swallows and stone
by Chatterpie
Summary: In which swallows fly south for the winter and Harry learns just how heavy a heart can be. Harry/Nate, Established relationship, NSFW.


Sort of AU, more of an AT. Set long before Harry ever had any run-ins with any Russian assholes. ¬.¬

* * *

"I'll be leaving when winter hits," Harry tells him, on a breath of curling smoke. Nate removes the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag, because he always smokes when he's had a few beers, or at least he does when he's with Harry. "What kinda bullshit is that?" he laughs, beathing out his own serpentine smoke-dragon. "Like a swallow flying south or some shit like that? Your delicate British constitution can't hack a good, New York winter?"

"Something like that," he replies, wanting very much to lean down and steal the smoke from his lips. "Like 'the Happy Prince'."

"The what?"

"You've never-" But Nate isn't big on literature, definitely not stories for kids, and he lets it go, stealing back the cigarette and gesturing a glowing circle in the air. "Old story. Andersen, I think. About a swallow and a statue."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" The American rolls over, the bedsheet slipping a few inches down his back, and Harry reaches out to trace newly-bared skin with his fingertips.

"It's a long story," he answers, Nate's back warm to his touch, muscles shifting reflexively as he turns his head to look at him, eyes heavy-lidded with beer and sex. "We've got all night. All Fall, if it comes to it."

"Autumn," Harry corrects him, because he likes the shape of the word better, likes the way it sounds in Nate's mouth when he mockingly repeats it, his accent softening the T. Sometimes he mimics Harry's cockney as well, and that never fails to send a shiver down his spine, because London drawl has never sounded so good as when it's coming from that mouth.

"All Autumn," Nate replies, lilting and teasing. "Tell me a story, Mr. Flynn."

Harry leans down to kiss the corner of his grin. "Once upon a time," he begins softly, kissing below his ear next. He feels the tremor, the unsteady stutter of Nate's breath, and suddenly swallows and princes don't seem that important. "Once upon a time, there was a bloody beautiful American bastard," he carries on, grinning against the curve of his shoulder. "And he happened to find himself in the bed of one despicably wicked Brit."

The American bastard in question laughs, taking the almost-forgotten cigarette and putting it to his lips, narrowly avoiding burning the pillow. "And how do the swallows and statues fit in?" he asks around the filter.

"I'll show you," Harry smirks like a cat, taking back the almost-spent cig and sealing his mouth over Nate's, stealing the smoke from his lungs.

It's October seventh, and they have all Autumn.

_He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, _

_and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt._

Harry loves Autumn. He loves the way the sun is so golden, the way it turns everything gold, like Midas' touch. He misses good, English Autumn, when the leaves on the trees are a riot of colour, reds and yellows and purples, and the smell of fireworks in the air on bonfire night. But there are some things about New York winters that more than make up for the lack of leafy trees and bonfire smoke, like the sight of Nate, peeling layers of clothing off to go shower, skin as sun-gilded as everything else the Autumn light touches. Nate sees him watching and smiles, not arrogant but knowing that he's at least attractive enough to earn that stare. "Come shower with me?" he offers, pausing in the act of unzipping his jeans. "It'll save on water."

"Well, you know how I worry about the environment," Harry drawls, closing the distance between them. Nate reaches out, fingers slipping under the Brit's shirt and peeling it away from his skin. He helps, pulling it over his head and throwing it oto the bed. Nate leans up to kiss him, hands on his chest for balance, and it's so _adorable_ that he can't help but grin against his mouth. "Need a Yellow Pages, love?"

"A what?" Nate gives a confused little laugh, and Harry rolls his eyes. Bless his heart, the Yank will never catch up with all of the British references, and it's somehow exasperating and endearing. "Never mind, love," he tells him, dipping him like a heroine from a ridiculous romance movie and kissing him senseless for a moment. "Now, get that glorious arse of yours in that shower."

"Can I finish getting naked first?" Nate exclaims, but his eyes gleam with amusement.

"Depends if I can help," Harry drawls, straightening him up, hands already dipping beneath the waist of his jeans to squeeze the aforementioned glorious arse. Nate gives a little yip of surprise, but he melts when the Brit kisses below his jaw - though the angle is sweet murder on his neck - and lets him slide jeans and underwear from his hips in one smooth motion, coaxing him to step forwards out of the puddle of denim and skivvies, so they're pressed together, chest to hip, skin to hot skin and rough fabric, and Harry feels the groan through the lips still pressed to Nate's throat. He feels, too, the slight tremor in the American's hands as they fumble for the fastening on _his_ jeans, and it makes _him_ melt just a little, because Nathan Drake, for all he is a beautiful, honey-skinned wet dream of a man, is not used to being swept off his feet and ravaged. He catches one hand and brings it to his mouth, nibbling on the pads of his fingertips, soft and teasing, and Nate pauses in his attempt at undressing him to let out a soft sound of sheer want that makes Harry's stomach do strange feats of acrobatics and his cock stand and salute.

"_God_, you're so bloody tempting," he mumbles, sweeping him up into another dizzying kiss, pushing him back against the nearest wall, not caring that it's _away_ from the shower. He ruts against him, a sharp, shallow snap of his hips and Nate moans in pleasure-pain as the fly of his jeans presses into sensitive flesh, and Harry feels a tiny moment of remorse for not getting rid of that problem first, but it's not his fault that Nate is sent by the devil to tempt him, not that he's ever been a man of good morals and restraint. He flicks the button open with one hand, the backs of his knuckles grazing Nate's cock, dragging another moan from him, and he's never gotten undressed so fast in his life, jeans still tangled around his ankles when he parts Nate's legs and slips between them, resuming where they left off with the thrust and roll of hips. There's no lube within hand's reach and that's just a damned shame because Harry's hands are full of Nate, full of glorious arse and muscled thighs that pull him closer and squeeze him just right, and his mouth is full of tongue that isn't his, and he sucks on it and swallows down the groan of pleasure that follows it, no pain this time, just pure _morepleasewant_, and he could happily come just like this, just him and Nate and the slide of hot, hard flesh, and the Yank is always so _willing_, melting under his touch like the snowball in hell that has always been his chance in life, his chance of having something this _perfect_.

Nate comes first, head thrown back against the wall, the column of his throat bared as he hollers and writhes and gasps for air, and it is always that, that moment when he's utterly unravelled and utterly _his_ that sends Harry over the edge, panting against the sharp edge of a collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat that dampens his skin.

"_Fuck_," the brunet mumbles past kiss-swollen lips, going limp between Harry and the wall. "Now I _really_ need that shower. Son of a bitch."

Harry laughs, mouth still against his throat, and sucks a vivid hickey into being, just because Nate is too awash with post-sex euphoria to object or put up a fight, and when he finds it, he'll grumble at him and Harry will tease and kiss him, and they'll probably end up having sex again. "Come on, then, you filthy American git," he orders, stepping away from the wall and pulling Nate along on jellied legs, almost tripping on his trousers before he remembers that they're still around his feet and steps from them. He leads him into the shower, slaps his arse as he dives under the spray and laughs when he bites out something appropriately caustic, joining him under the water and kissing the insult from his lips.

When they're both sufficiently clean, they emerge, toes pruned and fingers brushing each other's skin more often than not. Nate towels his hair, catching his reflection in the mirror. He spots the dusky bruise at the base of his neck and scowls, turning accusing eyes on Harry. The Brit teases, all irreverent cockiness, and steals the protest the same way he steals all of Nate's words: with the press of his mouth and the slick slide of his tongue. The brunet relents, letting him push him against the bathroom counter, and if this isn't deja-vu all over again, Harry doesn't know what is. He lifts him, and fucks him right there on the counter, attention torn between the expressions on his face and the motion of his back reflected in the mirror, planting a seed of an idea for next time. When they come, it's in a sweaty, tangled mess that's no cleaner than before they stepped into the bathroom, and twice as exhausted because of the first time. Nate swears, Harry laughs, and they shower again. Because Harry couldn't give two fucks about the environment.

'_I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow._

Harry's talking on the phone when Nate comes back, take-away brandished in his hands like a caveman with a mammoth carcass. It's blessedly endearing, and Harry finds his mouth quirking up into a smile before he realises that he should be paying attention to the conversation, because this is the next big deal, the next meal on the table. Or, on the bed, as the case may be.

"Yes," he replies, not going as far as to say 'sir', but at least keeping his voice respectful. It always pays to butter up the richer clients. "I understand. Fifth of December. I'll be there."

"You can't just say 'December fifth', like normal people?" Nate asks, the second he hangs up.

"No," he replies, crawling over the bed to relieve him of one of his bags, foraging for his beloved chinese food. The Yank always goes for Mexican, and he will _never_ understand the appeal when all the meat tastes like roadkill and the spices just taste like the burnt inside of his mouth. He hates spicy food. "_Americans_ say 'December fifth,' because they like to do everything backwards." He breaks apart the chopsticks and rolls them between his palms, like he learned to do in his month in China, stretching out on the bed and digging in.

"Where are you going?" Nate mumbles the question around a mouthful of burrito, and Harry wonders if it's the food or some sort of nervousness that causes the falter in his words. He also wonders if he's going to need to crack a window tonight, or if the Yank's digestive system will have mercy on him.

"Germany," he answers, licking sauce off the tip of a chopstick in a way that makes Nate's eyes go glassy. "Out near the Black Forest. Meeting my contact there to go over the details, then heading up to Russia."

"Oh."

There's silence for a moment, while Harry eats his rice and Nate devours his culinary disaster, then the American speaks up. "So... long job, then."

"A month at least," he replies, not missing the catch in his tone, the weight of his words, but not softening the blow. "Without allowances for complications. With? I might just be back in time for Spring. If you can call the piss-poor weather you get here 'Spring'."

Ordinarily, that would bring a jokingly indignant reply, or at least a laugh, but tonight it only draws a huff from the suddenly reclusive American. Harry sighs and sets down his food, removing the burrito from Nate's hand. "Take your shirt off."

"Wh-"

His eyebrows rise, his expression asking 'do you want to ask questions or do you want to get naked?' Nate takes his shirt off.

"Hot," he hisses, as the sauce drips across his bare chest, his muscles flexing in a way that's _mouthwatering_. Harry kisses his skin, an inch above the puddle of sauce, and he relaxes marginally.

"It'll cool down," the Brit reassures, thumb brushing over the sharp edge of a hipbone. "And I'll kiss it all better for you in a minute."

Nate comes all unwound at that, and Harry feels the tremor through his thighs, either side of the brunet's hips, pinning him to the bed as he decorates his skin with sweet and sour sauce. When he's finished, he sets the container aside, licking a dab of sauce from his thumb, and picks up the chopsticks. Picking up a spring roll, he dips it in the sauce and takes a bite, humming at the taste.

"Don't understand why you eat that crap," he murmurs, his voice low and sultry in the way that he knows makes Nate's toes curl. "No taste at all. It's just bland and spicy." The American's head sinks back against the pillow and his eyes close, and Harry knows he could be talking about the weather and Nate would still tremble beneath him as long as he talked in this voice. "Now this," he lowers his head, licking one of the curlicues of sauce from Nate's flesh, and the Yank murmurs a soft, incoherent note, stomach tensing under the attention. His fingers flex uselessly against his bindings, and it's really quite lucky that they each have one tie for business meetings, because it only took two to secure him to the bed. "This is delicious," he says, the words rumbling against his skin, and he feels the gooseflesh against his lips and bites back a smug little chuckle. He dips the roll in the sauce again and holds it within reach of Nate's mouth. "Have a taste."

The brunet's eyes flutter open and his head lifts, obediently biting off a corner. Harry smiles and rewards him with a faint touch, fingers of his free hand sliding against the side of his throat, feeling the shift as he swallows.

"Isn't that better?"

Nate mumbles something noncommittal, and Harry's smile sharpens into a smirk. He licks up another trail of sauce and leans over him, tongue slipping past his lips, curling around his and tasting sauce and Nathan, possibly the most delicious thing he's ever had the pleasure of tasting, and he feels the brunet lean up into the kiss, a little needy, a little desperate. He pulls away, the curve of his mouth sharp. "_Isn't that better_?" he repeats in the barest whisper against his mouth. Nate agrees, tripping over his words and still only half-coherent, but arching upwards for another kiss, and Harry considers his point proven. He scoops more sauce onto the spring roll and finishes it off in one mouthful, then sets the chopsticks aside and dips his fingers in the sauce instead, bringing them up to Nate's mouth. He doesn't even have to tell him, the American's tongue flicks out and curls around his fingers, drawing them into his mouth, and Harry's smirk is all wolf. "That's my boy," he murmurs, pressing the words against the hollow of his throat. Nate utters a sound around his fingers and _sucks_, and it's Harry's turn to have his toes curl. It's a bloody good thing the brunet has no idea what he does to him, or he'd be well and truly shagged.

_The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. 'Heave a-hoy!' they shouted as each chest came up. 'I am going to Egypt!' cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince._

"What... is that?"

Nate's stood in the doorway, holding a long, thin packet and looking more awkward than Harry's ever seen him look. Aside from the first time he screwed him, when the brunet confessed that he'd never been with _any_ man before, his eyes wide and uncertain. Harry wonders if that, more than anything, kept him here.

"Fireworks," Nate mutters, ducking his head. "Well, no. Because, there's nowhere we could let off fireworks. Not without getting arrested. So, sparklers."

The Brit stays silent, but the arch of his eyebrow speaks volumes.

"You always said.. fireworks were for November. You bitched about the Fourth of July like it was a crime against the natural order."

He remembers the conversation now, or rather, snippets from the many conversations they've had that amounts to one whole diatribe about fireworks in July and not in November, when the night air is crisp and just waiting to be filled with the scent of smoke and the fizz-pop of fireworks. He remembers, but he keeps his silence, sipping from a polystyrene cup of coffee, because Nate is awkward and beautiful, and he bought bloody _sparklers_ on the fifth of November.

Finally, when Nate's finished his fumbling explanation, Harry takes his cup into the bathroom. He rinses and flls it with water. Then he throws on a jumper and a coat, winding a scarf around his neck.

"What are you-"

"Well, we can't light them in here, can we? Bloody landlord'd have a field day if we set the smoke alarms off."

It's cold out, brisk against his cheeks and biting into his hands, which always suffer worst in cold weather. He shoves one in his pocket, but the other, curled around the cup, is starting to ache.

"What's the water for?" Nate asks, stopping when they reach the park and tearing the packet open with his teeth.

"Force of habit," he shrugs. "When I was younger, we'd have a bucket of water to put the sparklers in. Save setting fire to anything when we threw them away. Or, you know, small hands grabbing them and getting burned."

"Ah, I get it." He smiles and hands the first sparkler to Harry, then there's the click and flare of a lighter, and the spark and fizz as the stick flares into life. Then he pulls out a second one and presses the tip against his, until that, too, catches. If it were a cigarette, he would lean in until the tip of it touched the glowing ember of Harry's and suck the fire up until it caught, but it's a sparkler, so this will have to do.

"So, fireworks," Nate observes, idly swirling the stick through the air. "What now?"

Harry chuckles, drawing a shape in the air. The beginning is fading by the time he reaches the end, but it's okay, because that's what sparklers are _supposed_ to do. They burn bright and hot, make you feel ten years old again, and then they're gone.

Nate draws one too, a ridiculously over-elaborate picture that he'll never finish, but Harry catches a nose in profile, the edge of a grin in light and smoke, and he thinks he knows. He writes his name, though he never got further than the second 'r' before the 'H' faded when he was younger, and his reflexes are no faster now. The Yank tries as well, manages all of 'Nate', but only half of 'Nathan'. Harry watches him and grins. It's small and it's stupid, but he smiles anyway, because it's the fifth of November and Nathan Drake bought him fireworks. He bought him the smell of smoke in crisp Autumn air and family holidays back when there was a family to share them with, the taste of pumpkin pie - which he tried every year without fail, hot, cold, with squirted cream, with custard, and hated every year, without fail - He bought him home, on six thin sticks that burned brightly.

Later, they lay together in the dark, Nate tracing pictures over Harry's bicep, shoulder, like writing with a sparkler in the night. He feels the sharp lines of a 'H', the curl of an 'a' and smiles.

"Tell me about England?"

"What about it?" He turns his head to look at the Yank, but can barely make out more than the curve of a cheek in the dark.

"November fifth," Nate replies softly, fingers stilling. "Fifth of November."  
"Gunpowder, treason and plot," Harry lilts, sliding further down into bed. "It all started back in 1605.."

'_I am come to bid you good-bye,' he cried._

It's Thanksgiving, so Nate informs him this morning, kissing the edge of his jaw clumsily and half-falling out of bed. He may or may not mutter something confused and derogatory, but the Yank is already tugging his jeans on, and only turns to flash him a brilliant grin. He rolls over and drifts off back to sleep, hearing the click of the door closing from somewhere far away.

When Nate bursts back in, it's late enough that Harry's sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee. The Yank has two massive bags on each arm, and he blinks at him, dumbfounded, for a moment.

"What-"

"It's _Thanksgiving_," the brunet reminds him, as though that explains everything. And it actually does.

"That's great, love, but you know I don't celebrate it, right?"

"Oh, come on." Nate dumps two of his bags and removes the cup from Harry's fingers, taking a sip, then steals a kiss from the corner of his mouth. "Don't tell me you're not thankful for anything."

"It's an _American_ thing," the Brit argues stubbornly, and a little bit of the light in Nate's eyes goes out. He shrugs, withdraws. "Free food," he points out, though his tone is less enthusiastic now. "And you get to laugh at me failing to cook miserably."  
"You're not gonna rope me into helping?"

His grin flickers back into being, smaller but there. "There _may_ be some...holding of bowls. Or stirring things. Nothing too strenuous."

Harry groans and retrieves his cup. He could flee to the nearest bar for the day, come back when the chaos is over. But Nate's opening a cupboard that they haven't used since they arrived and pulling out an apron. It's not pink or frilly, much to Harry's eternal disappointment, but it is hilariously domestic.

So Harry stays. And there is holding of bowls, and stirring of suspect sauces, and flour _everywhere_. Later, when they're waiting for the food to finish cooking, there's sex in the kitchen, Nate caught between him and the counter, jeans down to his knees, apron pushed to one side, floury hands tangled through his hair. It's hot and urgent, and Harry is fucking _thankful_.

'_Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, 'will you not stay with me one night longer?'_

"Will you come back?"

Harry sees him in the mirror, but it's still a surprise when he speaks, so he still nicks himself with the razor, and swears in colourful language when the blood starts pouring, because facial cuts always bleed the worst, and aftershave is going to sting like a whore on that.

"Bloody buggering shitchrist," he swears, dabbing the cut with tissue. It's above his upper lip, too, where it will sting and stretch every time his mouth moves. "Don't.. don't make a guy jump like that, yeah?"

"Sorry." Nate's wearing that _look_ again, the look that he associates with the taste of strawberries on their first night together, and now the scent of fireworks. "Are you?"

"Depends," Harry replies, watching himself clean blood off his lip in the mirror and _not_ watching the Yank's expression flick between hope and disappointment. This was never a long-term thing. He's a treasure-hunter, and Nate is a ragamuffin urchin trying to carve out a niche in the world and call it 'home'. His whole life is about the next big adventure, while the brunet has always just been looking for a place to stay.

"Russia's big," he carries on, resuming his shaving, because he looks really strange with half a jaw's worth of stubble. "And cold. And their food is piss-poor."

"Yeah." The Yank glances up at him, and the reflections of their eyes meet. "Never been there, but... I hear. It's not a great place."

"France is nice," he offers, not sure what he's doing with the conversation any more. "Good culture, entertainment.."

"Can't speak a word of French," Nate replies, and his shoulders droop.

Harry turns to face him, clean-shaven and stinging slightly. "I can't stand New York," he says finally, honestly, and the brunet practically curls in on himself.

"Good food," he mumbles at length, something terribly small and naked in his eyes. "Good chinese."

Harry chuckles dryly. "Fucking awful Mexican," he shoots back.

"Terrible Mexican," Nate agrees, with a wobbly little laugh of his own.

"I hate... the people," the Brit continues more seriously, moving away from the sink, close enough to touch him. "The buildings. The whole spirit of the city's just about the rat race, about getting ahead or just staying afloat. None of it's..." he fumbles for the word.

"Exciting?" Nate offers.

"Hopeful," he replies after a beat. "Everyone in this city is so fucking miserable."

"I'm not."

"You're not native," he points out. "And for God's sake, get out of this city before you stop believing that you are."

"I have a life here," the brunet protests. "I have-"

"A lousy flat," Harry argues, because he will never say it's an _apartment_, not out loud. "No job. No wife and kids to feed. No ties here."

Nate looks at him, and there are words in his eyes, broadcast loud and clear. _There's you_.

"I hate this city," he says again, low and churlish, because he _hates_ the look that he's giving him, as though wanting is enough to hold him there, in a city that makes him miserable. And he hates that it just might be. "I'll... come back to America. But not New York. Maybe... Miami, or somewhere. Somewhere with colour."

"Right. Yeah, okay. Okay, I get that." But he doesn't, because he's turning away, shoulders hunched. He's picking up his coat from the bed and heading out of the door, and Harry doesn't call him back. He doesn't try to make it better, because the only damned thing in this city that he's staying for is his beautiful golden boy, and maybe, if Nate doesn't come back, if he doesn't believe that he can make this place his home, then Harry can leave, too.

'_It is winter,' answered the Swallow, 'and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you.'_

Nate returns much later, when the sky is beginning to lighten, and Harry takes his first real breath of the day. He _hates_ how it feels to not have him here, his talisman against this godawful place. There are dark smudges under the brunet's eyes, and the slope of his shoulders is weariness rather than despair. He stumbles into Harry, latches his arms around him and kisses him, and the Brit can taste alcohol, tequila or vodka, something hard and bitter. Like him. He almost laughs at the thought, but Nate's mouth is hot and urgent on his, and he caves like a house of cards, groaning into his mouth and crushing him against himself.

They have sex, but it's not the same as usual. There's no teasing, no laughter, only the hot, hard press of skin on skin and the taste of alcohol and desperation. Harry's lost in it, tangled up in Nate's need and Nate's trembling, grasping arms, and he realises that he _needs_ as much as the brunet does, and that he's terrified of needing.

"I saw this episode of the Moomins, once."

Nate looks hungover, tired and thoroughly miserable, and Harry would be melting at the sight of him, but what he's said is so completely out of the blue that he just stares at him for a long moment. He hasn't had any coffee yet, and his pre-coffee brain is no place for the Moomins.

"Sully sat me down and made me watch it. I told him I was too old for that shit, and he told me that I might learn something."

He quirks an eyebrow. "And did you?"

"I learned that if you're a hippo-thing, you don't need junk to have kids. And never to trust Sully when it came to important life lessons."

Harry snorts, and pours himself a coffee, taking a swig despite the inevitable burnt mouth. "So. Moomins. Relevant here because.."

"Snufkin always went away for the winter, you know."

And just like that, he gets it. Of course, it was going to be about _this_. It's December the First, and _everything_ is about this.

"And.. well, he always came back. He always came home."

"This isn't home, love," Harry points out, as gently as he can, because he can't stand another day of not breathing properly. Not when he has to finalise a hundred little details about this trip. He's been putting it off hecause he can't do it with those eyes watching him, full of reproach and hurt, and when he finally got the place to himself yesterday... he couldn't concentrate for five consecutive minutes.

"It could be."

"Not for me."

"Harry-"  
He _knows_ what he's going to say, and covers his mouth before he can say it. "Don't."

Nate's brows pucker.

"It's not going to make everything better. It's not going to make New York any more tolerable to me, it's not going to make Russia go away. It's just going to make this a lot harder."

The brunet peels his hand away. "But... Maybe I just want to say it because... I want you to know."

He's suspicious. Nate wants something, and no amount of arguing or reasoning has worked, so he's pulling out the big guns. That has to be the reason.

"Russia's big," he murmurs, echoing what Harry said twenty-four hours ago. "And cold. And... I guess, I want you to have something warm to hold onto while you're out there. Until you can migrate south."

Harry frowns for a moment, then he realises. _Swallows. Swallows and statues._

"A lead heart won't keep me, pet," he replies, but his fingers thread through Nate's hair. "I can't. It's getting colder, and I _can't_-"  
"I love you."

_Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. 'You are blind now,' he said, 'so I will stay with you always.'_

'_No, little Swallow,' said the poor Prince, 'you must go away to Egypt.'_

"What time are you going?"

Harry sits on top of his suitcase, smoking a cigarette. He hasn't indulged since... God, since that night. Swallows and statues and bedtime stories. _All Autumn_.

"Early," he replies. "You'll still be asleep."

Everything is packed, his meagre possessions all stowed neatly away into one rucksack and one suitcase, and he only realised when he saw it all packed up how _small_ his life is. Small enough to carry with him to the far corners of the world. Small enough to barely weigh him down. Nate sits at his feet, head against his knees, drinking a beer. Occasionally, Harry runs his fingers through the brunet's hair, and Nate will hum and tilt his head.

_I love you_.

The words echo through his head. It's been four days, but he can still hear them as though the American just said them, just breathed them against the fabric of his jeans or the palm of his hand. He never knew how heavy a lead heart could be, but he thinks Nate slipped it into his backpack, because he feels the weight of it settling down somewhere near his chest. _What is love?_

The smoke curls from his lips, a question mark in midair, punctuating his unspoken question. He thinks of Germany. Of the Black Forest, of breadcrumbs leading him home. Of swallows and stone and Egypt, China, India, the scent of spice heavy in the air and the gold of the light as the sun kisses the horizon. He thinks a lot of gold, in this grey city. He thinks of lead, in his chest. He never knew a heart could feel this heavy. If he breaks it in two, perhaps Nate could keep half, and it wouldn't weigh so much.

'_I will stay with you always,' said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet._

The sun rises slowly. It's not that gilded light of Autumn any more, it hasn't been since December began. It's watery and weak, but as it filters through the window, it still catches Nate's skin, still turns him into a golden idol, his not-so-happy prince, maybe a little less gilt than before, but still _his. _He leans down and kisses him, soft against the corner of his mouth, the curve of his cheek.

"I love you," he murmurs into the shell of a sleeping ear. Then he wraps himself back up in the duvet and curls in closer, protecting himself from the Winter chill. Arms slipping around Nathan's waist - not stone or gold but warm, living skin - he closes his eyes and drifts back off to sleep.

It's December the fifth, and Harry misses his flight.


End file.
